by B. A. Savage
“I don’t know. But his driver’s license in his pocket said Mark Campbell.”
“So how do you know the dead man isn’t Campbell?”
“The background on the picture was white.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t all driver’s license background pictures white?”
“No, sir. They are blue.”
“Why would your missing man and a dead man be carrying the same name?”
“When you call me back with the info, maybe I will have an answer for you.”
“Is he from here?”
“My friend seems to think so. She spent some time with him in New Orleans. I also believe he is doing some business here in Fayette.”
“Okay, I will get started on it first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks, Robert, good night.”
“What are you guys doing?” Susan said, standing in the doorway.
“Your sister went to get the kids and I’m about to fix dinner. What do you want?”
Susan shrugged, flashing her big blue eyes. “Chinese sounds good.”
“How about stir fried shrimp?”
“Sounds good to me. Have you found out anything?”
“The man in the hotel is a guy by the name of Don Lee.”
“Does he have a record?”
“Yes, he served ten years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Manchester Kentucky for Corporate Espionage.”
Susan shook her head. “Are you kidding me? Corporate Espionage? I just spend two weeks making love to some low budget James Bond.”
“Let’s find him first.”
“Where do we start?” Susan asked with a puzzled look on her face.
“We will start with the person who knew him most.”
“Who’s that?”
“You, Susan,” French said with a smile. “I want you to write down everything he told you about himself. I mean everything. But first, I want to ask you a question.”
“What is that, boss?”
“When you were in New Orleans, or on the flight back, did you notice a heavyset, tall man with slicked back blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache following you?”
“No, I don’t think so, why?”
“Forget about it. Get to work on your details. Write down everything you remember him telling you.”
Chapter Six
It was 10am the next morning when Lieutenant Emerson knocked on the front door and was greeted by Victor.
“Hello, Mister Emerson.”
“Good morning, Victor. What are you eating?”
The little black kid looked down at the fried bacon and egg sandwich. Some of the yolk had dropped out of the bread and was running down his wrist. He lifted his hand and licked the yellow yolk from his wrist. “Eggs and bacon, Mister Emerson, Mister Fry cooked it. Do you want a bite?” He held up the sandwich to Emerson’s lips, bringing a smile to the detective’s hard face.
“No, thank you, son. Does Mister Fry have any coffee?”
“Sure, come on in.”
The two took the stairs that divided the basement on the first floor. Toni was in the kitchen, begging for Alice’s food. The other three, French, Karen, and Susan, were sitting around the table, eating.
“Good morning, Mister French, Susan, Karen, Alice,” Emerson said. Toni looked at him and barked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Good morning to you, too, Toni.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant. Have you found out anything about Mark Campbell?” French asked.
“Yes, we found out a few things.” he said, pulling out a chair at the table as Karen brought him a plate.
“What does that mean?” Susan asked.
He pulled a picture out of a folder and slid it across the table to Susan. “Do you know this man?”
Susan shook her head. “Who is this supposed to be?”
“According to Cleveland, Ohio Department of Motor Vehicle, this is Mark Campbell’s driver’s license photo."
“No, that isn’t him. There must be a mistake.”
“May I see that picture?” French asked, taking the picture from Susan. “This doesn’t even look like a man in a hotel room.”
“No, Susan, there isn’t any mistake. They have his fingerprints on file. Mark Campbell has worked for the government for the last five years. Before that, he was in the Army.”
“What was his MOS?” French asked.
“Military Intelligence. He spent most of his time in Germany.”
“What did he do for the government?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know. His records are marked classified.”
“Do you have an address for him?” French asked.
“Yes, but you are not going to like it. Ohio Western Reserve National Cemetery. He was killed in a car accident six months ago.”
“So he was buried in a military cemetery six months ago and two Mark Campbell’s pop up here in Kentucky.” French pulled the house coat over his belly as he stood and began pacing the floor, chewing on the remains of bacon and egg sandwich. “What do you think’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know, but I want you three to stay out of this and let the police handle it.”
Emerson looked over to see Victor and Alice shaking their heads. “Mister Emerson, they have been talking about this all morning. They are going to find Mister Campbell.” Victor said.
“Why do you two think that?” Emerson said, forcing a smile.
“’Cause that’s what they do,” Alice replied.
“Touché, kids,” Susan said.
“I figured that would be your answer. Would you at least keep me informed with what you find out?”
Chapter Seven
It was 11 o’clock when Susan and Karen pulled up in the parking lot of Fayette County Public Library. The air conditioning was a welcome relief from the extreme heat of central Kentucky. The two girls took the elevator up to the third floor. They followed the other customers to a stocky, black-haired Filipino woman sitting behind a desk.
“May I help you please?” she asked, looking over the reading glasses resting on the edge of her nose.
“Yes, ma’am, do you carry college yearbooks here?” Susan asked.
The woman’s eyes darted from one face to the other. She had a displeased look on her face, as if the two young attractive women were there to ask her son on a date. “It depends on what college you are looking for.” she said, raising the hot cup of coffee to her lips.
“Morehead State University,” Susan said.
“What years?” she asked, clicking away on the keyboard without removing her eyes from their faces.
Susan shrugged. “The 1990s, I don’t know the exact year,” Susan said.
A smiled crossed the woman’s lips. “Looking for an old classmate?”
“Yes, something liked that,” Karen replied.
“Tell me a little bit more about this young man and maybe I can help you.”
“I don’t know much about him,” Susan said with an embarrassed look on her face. “The only thing I know is he was on the football team. He said he was a quarterback.”
She took a deep sip of coffee and patted Susan on the hand.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll find him.” She stood up, ran her hands over the front of her dress, turned, and disappeared through two swinging doors. After several minutes, she reappeared, carrying a stack of books.
“Here we go, honey,” she said, dropping the books on the table. “You have Morehead State University’s yearbooks from 1990 through 2000.”
“Thank you,” Karen said.
“My name is Miss Amber. If you need anything else, please let me know.”
“Are you sure he said Morehead State’s football team?” Karen asked.
“I am not sure if anything he said was the truth.” she said as tears filled her eyes.
“Susan, don’t worry. As investigators, it is our job to find out the truth. If it doesn’t work, we will try something else.”
The Filipino librarian woman walked ove
r to the table, carrying more yearbooks. “Here are the rest of the yearbooks for Morehead State. I also brought Eastern Kentucky University yearbooks for the same year.”
“Thank you for your help, ma’am,” Susan said. “Well, let’s get started.” She picked up the first yearbook and slowly began going through the pages.
Three hours later, Susan was still busy looking through the yearbooks. “Where the hell could he be?” Susan asked.
Karen stifled a yawn as she left the back entrance of the library. Lunch had been an unpleasant, hurried affair at a new restaurant just on the other side of Vine Street, and now the greasy remains of a hamburger laid in her stomach. She belched and found herself hoping the meat wasn’t tainted. “Having any luck, Sissy?”
“I don’t understand. He said he was on the football team. I have checked every year from 1980 to 2000 and found nothing.”
“I know I’m late, Susan. I stopped to pick up a chili dog with onions for you.” Karen smiled.
“I believe he could have lied about everything he told me. Maybe Mister French is wrong. What do you think?”
Karen shrugged. “Mister French also said that something he said could be true.”
“He is not on the football teams of these two schools,” Susan repeated.
“Why don’t you check the band members?”
“Why?”
“Call it a gut feeling.”
Susan picked up the first book and started leafing through the pages with one hand and eating the chili dog with the other. “I cannot believe it! Here he is. But it has his name as Mark Dalton.” she said. “He played the flute in the band. “
“Let me see,” Karen said, taking the book from her sister’s hand. “He is very handsome. Let’s make some copies of this picture, and I check through the yellow pages and see if he's listed.”
“While you check the yellow pages, I’ll see if she will check Morehead State University Alumni.”
She polished off her chili dog and walked up to the desk. The woman was on the telephone but excused herself when she saw Susan approaching. “Yes, my dear?”
“Miss Amber, I need an address. Morehead’s Alumni files, you have them, don’t you?”
“Yes, we have them but they are for official use only. I’m sorry.”
“But this is important,” Karen said, walking up behind her sister.
“I’m sorry. It is against policy.”
“You don’t understand. My sister believes he is the father of her child, Alice, and she has this illness that runs in the families.” Susan said.
“This is a medical matter?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am, the doctor wants to know the origin of this illness.”
“What is the illness?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” Karen asked.
“What is the illness?”
The two girls looked at each other, and Karen replied, “It’s personal, I am sure Alice wouldn’t want us talking about it.”
The woman looked at the girls for several minutes as if she could read their thoughts as the two girl displayed shit eating grins. “Okay, follow me,” she said.
She stood up ran her hands over the front of her dress, and walked down a long hallway and through a door marked ‘do not enter’. Once inside the room, they followed her to a table. She slipped into a cushioned chair.
“Name please?” she asked, adjusting her reading glasses.
“Mark Dalton.”
Watching her fingers dance across the keyboard, it was like watching a pianist playing a piano. “Mark Dalton, and here we go.” She was silent several moments.
“Did you find him?” Karen asked.
“Yes, yes,” she acknowledged impatiently.
Susan looked at Karen and back at the woman. “Is something wrong?”
The woman took the reading glasses off and looked Susan in the eyes. “He is married, honey.”
Chapter Nine
The house was 4,000 square foot with well-trimmed lawn, a white privacy fence around the front yard, and a three-year-old pine tree on the left side of the yard. On the right side of the house was a two car attached garage and the door was open with an apple red, 2012 Chevrolet Camaro 2SS in the garage. Susan touched the grill and noticed it was hot, meaning the driver had only been home 10 to 15 minutes.
She knocked on the door and stepped back, not sure what may happen once the door opened. She slid her hand into her purse and wrapped it around the cold handle of the 9mm Glock.
The door swung open, and an attractive, dark haired woman with wide lips and a thin nose gave her the once over and asked, “Yes, may I help you?”
“Are you Sara Dalton?”
She looked Susan up and down. “How can I help you?”
“You are very pretty.”
The woman stared at Susan but didn’t reply.
“My name is Susan Day. I work for an insurance company. Is your husband, Mark, home?”
“What do you want with Mark?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Talk to him about what?”
“It’s personal.”
“Well, leave me your business card and as soon as I see him, or when I hear from him, I will let you know. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
“I don’t understand what you are trying to say.”
She stared at Susan for a minute and said, “I haven’t heard from him in six months. The last time we talked, he said he was in New York.”
Susan's eyes widened. “But he was registered at the International Hotel this morning.”
Sara exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Your name is Susan, right? Take my advice. Whatever he promises you, he lies. So you need to stop wasting your time on that bum. He’s not worth it. You are not the first beautiful young girl who been here looking for him, and believe me, honey, you will not be the last.”
“There has been others looking for him?”
“Four in the last six months. I think he gets his kicks from banging and lying to young, beautiful women. That’s why I filed for divorce.”
“You guys are getting a divorce? Are you saying you are not married to him?”
“No, we are married, but listen to what I am saying. He’s no good. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.” Before Susan could say anything else, the woman had closed the door.
Chapter Eight
It was after 6 o’clock at night, and Lieutenant Emerson was getting pissed. Chief Cutter was supposed to give a news conference at 8. So far, they hadn’t found a single witness to the assault, or even who could say that there were any unusual characters in the vicinity.
“It was a 9mm slug, Lieutenant,” a detective reported.
“Okay, thank you,” Emerson acknowledged impatiently, dismissing the evidence.
“Good evening, Lieutenant.” French said, walking in the room.
The fat man’s appearance was a welcome sight for the detective. I can get French to go over the crime scene do his thing, he thought. At least he would have something to tell the chief for the news reporters.
“Come in, come in, Mister French. I need your help.”
“What is it, Emerson?”
“So far, we haven’t come up with shit. And I need something to tell the reporters, so we don’t look like total idiots on tonight’s evening news.”
French looked at the dead male body on the floor in front of him. He pulled out a tape measure and measured the distance from the shot in the victim’s back to the top of his head. He rolled the man over on his back and saw the exit wound from the upper part of the stomach. He measured the distance to the top of the victim’s head. He walked over to the nightstand on the left side of the bed, and got down on his hands and knees. “Lieutenant, do you have a pocket knife?”
“Sure,” the detective said, fishing through his pocket. “Here you go. What did you find?”
French shrugged. “Looks like a bullet. I think it’s a 9mm, maybe a Beretta.”
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“Yes, yes, I already know that.” he said, glad he had a couple of double Scotches under his belt to help hide the knowing look that was trying to creep across his face.
French turned and grinned at the detective. “He was also 6’ 1", left handed, and a very good shooter. It looks like the victim opened the door. Took a few steps into the room, and the shooter must have called his name, shooting him as he was turning around. After the victim had dropped to the floor, he was searched.”
“There were no signs of robbery. He had a wallet full of money.” Emerson said.
“Yes, but he must have found what he was looking for.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because look in the dresser,” French, added, sliding the door back. “Inside, there is a blanket, sheets, and pillow cases, neat folded. If the killer had not found what he was looking for on the victim, he would have searched the drawers.”
“Did you find out anything else, Mister French?”
“The shooter was a redhead.”
“Did you find some red hair?”
“Yes, Lieutenant, and it’s not yours. You have short hair with a military cut. This guy’s hair is much longer.”
“How did you find a long red hair? CSI has been over every inch of this room.”
“It’s hanging on his shirt. Come here, I’ll show you.”
The detective leaned over to see French pull off a six inch hair. “This could be his wife’s hair or he could have picked it up anywhere.”
French shrugged, walking toward the door. “But, it could also be the killer’s hair.”
“Where are you going, French? I need your help.”
“To help you catch the killer. I will be in touch.”
Chapter Ten
Susan didn’t show up that night at French’s home, which was strange. French had made a large bowl of seafood salad and in the last year since Karen moved in, Susan had never missed seafood night. Once everyone had eaten and retired to their rooms, French called her home.
“Hello, Susan, are you alright?”
“I don’t know, Mister French. Why?”